A Pleasing Impression
by Dueling Dahlings
Summary: . . . In which Giles's attempt to take Jenny out for a romantic evening spirals into invented diseases (Nintendoitis, anyone?), knocked over bookshelves, and some very exhilarating conversation indeed.


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A Pleasing Impression

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by drama-princess and She's a Star

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Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon.

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Author's Note: This started out as a little one-shot in which Giles and Jenny went to rent movies at Blockbuster. Alas, Blockbuster wound up not even making it into the (fifteen page long) fic - what _did_ make it in, however, is a smitten Giles, a deeply suffering Jenny, Xander and Cordelia's rather violent antics toward one another, _and_ a made-up disease called Nintendoitis. Come on, you know you're intrigued.

This is set sometime during early-ish season 2, maybe a bit before Lie to Me.

*

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The happiest conversation is that of which nothing is distinctly remembered, but a general effect of pleasing impression. 

-Samuel Johnson

*

Rupert Giles prided himself on being many things. He had been a faithful Watcher for most of his days—he had a keen mind bent on uncovering every piece of knowledge that books held—and really, he had quite a good aim with an ax.

Unfortunately, none of those abilities lent themselves to asking out beautiful computer-science teachers. 

Not that he, er, did that often. Or even thought about it a good deal. 

"Dear Ms. . . oh, no, that's all wrong." Giles tossed the pen down and glared at the suspiciously blotted piece of parchment before him. "Ah. Perhaps a slightly more informal tone. . . like Buffy once suggested." 

Taking up the pen again, he began to write with rather more confidence. "I have my. . thing," he wrote, wincing at the structure of the sentence. "You have yours. Ah. Shall we try the pub?"

Giles dropped his face into his hands. 

"You know, I can't do this," he said to a copy of Wuthering Heights. "Why don't I just find a few vampires, cover myself in blood, and suggest tea?"

"Well, that's one way to spend your time," an amused voice informed him from the doorframe of his office.

He sat up at once, at the same time managing to knock a stack of books, a cup of tea, and his first twenty-five attempts at a casual note to Jenny Calendar off his desk.

Well, this was just going splendidly.

"Oh," he said, hoping to God that she wouldn't pick up any of his attempts at miniature love letters, particularly the one that compared her eyes to melted pools of chocolate. (He hadn't slept well the night before, he was exhausted, and poetry wasn't exactly a skill of his. He was also getting rather desperate.) "Oh, h . . . hello, Jenny."

"Jumpy, England?" she inquired, an amused smile playing at her lips.

"I didn't sleep last night," he replied, hurriedly gathering all of the notes and shoving them into a drawer. "Perhaps I've had too much coffee."

"I know the feeling," she said sympathetically, taking a few steps forward and then reaching down for something on the floor. "Hey, you dropped this."

He watched in dread as her eyes scanned the page.

A slow smile spread across her face, and she looked up at him. "I wouldn't _say_ that it's too presumptuous to request my charming company for another evening, but--"

"Yes," he cut her off, resisting the urge to knock himself unconscious with the thickest volume he could find. "Well . . . very good, then--"

"Most guys don't even do the whole love letter thing anymore," she said teasingly, perching on the corner of his desk and smiling at him. "But I get one who does, _and_ uses the words 'plethora' and 'germane' in the process."

"I know it must all be very amusing to you," he said irritably. This really wasn't going as planned. "But if you'd kindly just refuse--"

"Rupert," she interrupted, and placed her hand lightly on his arm, "I'd love to go out with you again."

. . . Well, this was a bit of an improvement.

"Well, uh," Giles said, taking his glasses off and wiping his brow. He glanced up to see Jenny regarding him with an amused smile playing about her lips. "Thank you." 

"My pleasure," she replied, a distinctly seductive note making its way into her voice. At least, Giles thought it was seductive. He was not really experienced with the matter. 

"Erm," he tried.

"Yes, well, I'd better go," she said regretfully, sliding off the desk. Giles couldn't help but notice the way her dark hair puffed out slightly as she landed. "Classes, you know, all that." A soft blush had come into her cheeks. "I'll. . . see you later, then?"

"R-right," Giles said, nearly dropping his glasses at the smile Jenny was giving him on the way out. "I'll—er-- oh." He breathed a sigh of relief as Jenny disappeared from sight. "Well," he said crisply, gathering up the wadded attempts at romance. "That could have gone worse, I suppose." 

"Hey, Giles!"

"Or not," Giles muttered as Xander strode in, Willow and Buffy hot on his heels.

"You don't look thrilled to see us!" Xander commented, feigning shock. "What gives?"

"Nothing . . . gives, as you put it," Giles returned flatly. "I'm just a bit busy at the moment--"

"We saw Ms. Calendar leaving," announced Buffy, her eyes sparkling in a manner that Giles found himself rather apprehensive of.

"She stopped by," he replied, staring determinedly into his empty teacup, the contents of which were currently staining the floor.

"So," Buffy said, grinning. "What'd you talk about?" After a moment's pause in which Giles pointedly did not reply, she asked cautiously, "You were . . . just . . . talking, right?"

"I don't see that it's any of your business," Giles said crisply.

The three teenagers exchanged looks of something remarkably like disgust. Xander gave a very loud and rather unconvincing cough, Willow smiled slightly to herself, and Buffy valiantly tried not to giggle.

Giles sighed, irritated. "Yes, we were just talking."

"Oh, good," Buffy said immediately. "Because - no offense or anything - that's a mental picture that nightmares are made of."

"Why, thank you," Giles deadpanned.

"Whoa, what's this?" Xander asked, picking up the phone directory from his desk and eyeing the red lines. "Four Seasons? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Giles," Buffy said in an infuriatingly sing-songy tone, "Are you asking Ms. Calendar out on a daaate?"

"Is there any point in my reminding you that it's not any of your concern?"

"Nope," Buffy said brightly.

"I thought not," Giles muttered darkly.

"No, this is good!" Willow cut in. "Ms. Calendar's been complaining to me for ages about how she's waiting for you to ask her out again. And she thinks your accent is sexy." She paused, then finished rather awkwardly, "And I don't think I was supposed to tell you that."

"Thank you, Will," Xander said in disgust. "That is information that enriches all our lives. Really."

"Well, I thought Giles would want to know!" Willow protested stubbornly.

Giles attempted to look peeved. Judging by the three teenager's reactions, he'd thought it was fairly safe to say that he failed spectacularly.

"Ugh, look, he likes it," Xander said with disgust. "That's. . .okay, that's just wrong."

Giles fixed him with a rather pointed look before turning to Buffy. "Buffy, is the world in any immediate danger?"

Buffy shook her head, still trying to hide a wide grin. 

"Nope," Willow threw in.

Giles took a deep, steadying breath. "Is there any threat of immediate danger?"

Buffy seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking her head again.

"Then what," Giles said, his thin veneer of patience wearing considerably. "Are you doing out of class?" 

"I think that's the 'go away or die' phrase in Giles' vocabulary," Xander said helpfully. 

"Yes, precisely." Giles picked up the nearest book. "Now, off with the three of you." 

Buffy, Willow, and Xander all exchanged meaningful looks and headed out towards the exit. Buffy muttered something under her breath to Willow, and the last thing Giles heard before the door closed was the beginning of hysterical laughter. 

"She thinks my accent's sexy?" he murmured to himself as he thumbed through the Oxford Dictionary.

*

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, she had a romantic dinner date with Rupert Giles set for that night, and Jenny Calendar wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and die.

Actually, the curling up thing was optional. She wouldn't mind just dying flat-out.

That could, she supposed, be taken the wrong way. It wasn't that she didn't want to go out with Rupert - as a matter of fact, the entire hour after he'd asked her, she'd grinned like some kind of insane asylum escapee and scared one of her students by referring to their latest project as 'absolutely super'. It was kinda creepy, how much she liked this guy.

And it therefore thoroughly sucked that on the day of their big date Aunt Rose had come to town and resulted in a fit of cramps that made Jenny wish she were some sort of vampire or dark force (though during this time of the month she did a damn good impression of it) so that Buffy could just slay her and be done with it.

She didn't want to cancel on Rupert. She really didn't. As a matter of fact, the thought of the crestfallen expression on his face that'd probably surface if she did cancel actually made her heart ache. (Which added a few points to the it's-creepy-how-much-she-liked-him scale.)

Which meant that instead of sitting Rupert down and calmly discussing the situation with him, she'd have to go to the old standby.

Make something up.

"Hmm," she muttered, rolling onto her side in hopes of lessening the (rather) exquisite agony she was going through. "Um. Relative dies?"

She brightened for a minute, but then decided that it was not only bad, karma speaking, but would also invite several awkward questions about family that Jenny really would rather keep quiet.

So. Sickness it was. 

The deadlier the better.

Jenny pinched her nose and reached for her cell phone. All right. Maybe she'd be interrupted by a spasm of pain in the middle of the conversation—you know, add a touch of realism. And. . . she glanced down at the "frequently dialed" list with a faint feeling of consternation. Why, exactly, was Rupert first on there? The man didn't even like telephones. 

"Giles here," she heard him say crisply. 

"Uggh. . . " Jenny began, tilting her head back so she sounded even more nasal. "Wuper? Itz Ginny."

"Jenny?" he asked, immediately sounding concerned. "Are you all right?"

If someone else had asked that question, she would've replied with something along the lines of 'Oh, yes. Peachy. That's why I'm uggh-ing and pronouncing my R's like W's.' - it was just too fine an opportunity for a scathing sarcastic comment to pass up. But it wasn't someone else, it was Rupert, and against her better judgment, she actually found it sweet.

Sweet.

_Jenny Calendar, you've got it bad._

"Ac'tully, dot really," she replied, and threw in a not-at-all-forced moan of agony. "I'b dot well."

Duh.

"What is it? A cold? You sound quite terrible."

"Gee, thanks," she deadpanned without thinking, then cringed. Damn her addiction to sarcasm.

"Oh, no," he said at once, sounding rather flustered. "I didn't . . . you sound ill, I mean, but . . . still nice. You have a very pretty voice."

Why was she calling him again? She felt fine, really. She was sure that she could make it through a few hours. After all, what kind of woman would she be if she let a few waves of excruciating pain stop her from going out with him? Seeing him would probably make her feel a lot better, judging by the near-giddy effect he always seemed to have on her--

Ow. Ow-ow-ow.

Okay, never mind.

"Ugggh," she groaned.

"You sound very ill," he said, worried. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"Yeah, th'doctors say itz -" Oh, crap. _What_ do _the doctors say, Jenny?_ she asked herself bitterly. "Um . . . uh . . . the symbtobs are really bad. The world keeps sbinning and I'b burning up; I'be got a fever of about one hundred and ten-"

"One hundred and ten?" Rupert asked, sounding rather alarmed. "Jenny, you should be in a hospital - I'm surprised you're still conscious-"

"Did I say one hundred and ten?" she asked, laughing nervously. "I meant one hundred and two. Abofer side affect of this - I'b saying things that make no sense."

"And . . . what was the name of this?" he asked. "I don't think I caught it the first time."

_Thank you, Rupert, for making this as difficult as possible._

"Ub . . ."

She looked frantically around at the objects scattered around her bedroom. Midol—complete waste of space it was, too. Erm. . . Kleenex. A box of Kotex. Her laptop. And. . . Jenny's brain lit up as she caught sight of the stack of Mario games. Brilliant. He'd never catch this one as a lie.

"Nintendoitis," she blurted out. 

"Nintendo. . . itis?" Giles repeated carefully. Oh, God, he wasn't he wasn't writing this down, was he?

"Iz veddy. . . wawe," Jenny said, starting to gulp air as the effects of pinching her nose became apparent.

"Erm. . .Jenny, are you certain you don't need assistance? Nintendee. . . ah, Nintendoitis sounds rather dangerous."

"No!" Jenny gasped, releasing her nose and sitting bolt upright. "Uh, I mean. . . iz contajus! Veddy contajus! I'bine fine!" 

"You're certain?" Giles repeated, sounding less and less convinced by the moment. She bit back the impulse to screech "OF COURSE I'M CERTAIN, YOU BRITISH IDIOT!" into the phone, and instead settled for a rather pitiful sounding moan.

"Uh huh," she said mournfully.

"Well. . ." Giles said. "All right, then."

"Abofer night?" Jenny asked hopefully. 

"Of course," Giles said, sounding considerably cheered by that question. "Ah, yes, of course. I'll make all the arrangements. Well. . . do feel better, Jenny. And don't hesitate to call if you need any . . . er, medical attention."

"I'll do dat," Jenny assured him. "Bye, Ru . . . Wuper."

"Take care," Giles said warmly.

"I bill," she said, turning off the phone and taking a deep breath. It was the little things in life that counted, like the guy you dated telling you to take care, and being able to breathe through your nose. This really wasn't so bad - a pair of sweatpants, a few pints of ice cream, and her laptop, and she'd be fine.

_Or . . . not_, she decided as another particularly sharp pain seized.

Back to wishing for death with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, then.

*

" . . . I wonder if Jenny is all right," Giles mused aloud as he avoided a rather lethal kick from Buffy.

"Giles," the Slayer said with a strained smile, "That's the sixteenth time you've mentioned Ms. Calendar in the past ten minutes." Right hook, low kick. "Maybe you should check up on her."

"I'm sure she's perfectly fine," Giles responded, then promptly realized that he didn't quite believe what he was saying. Buffy gave him a rather skeptical look and reached for her bottled water, pushing a few strands of hair out of her face.

"Willow, Xander, Cordelia, have you found anything yet?" he asked, glancing anxiously at the three of them.

"No," Cordelia said, rather bitterly. "And I've looked in, like, forty _million_ books. This stuff is totally gross. I mean, I have better things to be doing with my time than look up . . . what's it called again?"

"Nintendoitis," Willow supplied, a rather strange expression on her face as she said it.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Whatever."

"Uh, Giles?" Xander asked, banging shut another dusty text and looking up at the librarian. "Here's a thought. There is no Nintendoitis."

"Gee, come up with that all by yourself?" Cordelia asked with a saccharine smile.

"Do you really need to be here, Cruella DeVil?" Xander snapped.

"Hey!" Cordelia cried, affronted. "I am giving up my own valuable time to be here-"

"Yeah, and it's been swell," Xander said, forcing a smile that looked more like a grimace, "But I'd suggest that you leave before I push a bookshelf on you and make it look like an accident."

"Ugh! You are so--"

"You _guys_," Willow cut in pointedly.

Xander and Cordelia fell silent, apparently satisfied with shooting dark glares at each other across the table.

"What do you mean, no Nintendoitis?" Giles asked, perplexed. "But Jenny said-"

"A word about women, Giles," Xander said, eyes still fixed on Cordelia with an expression of intense dislike, "They live to make your life hell." He paused, then threw in as an afterthought, "They're also wearing way too much makeup."

"_Please_!" Cordelia exclaimed. "This look is completely _au naturale_, which you would know if you were-"

"Gay?"

"You mean she might have . . . made it up?" Giles repeated. Buffy threw him a concerned glance.

But surely this was ridiculous. Jenny wouldn't . . . make up some illness to get out of spending time with him. Or maybe she would . . .

Giles didn't much like that possibility.

"Uh, yeah," Cordelia said snappishly. "I once told this really geeky guy that I had the beginnings of leukemia instead of going out with him."

"That was _me_," Xander said sharply.

"Was it?" Cordelia looked vaguely interested. 

"Yeah. Remember that—"

"Oh, right," Cordelia said hurriedly. "And I really did have a fatal disease. Or, um, they thought I did."

"Guys, cut it out," Willow said. "I'm sure Ms. Calendar wouldn't do that, Giles." 

"No, of course not," Giles said absently. 

Buffy had stopped doing backflips and was looking back and forth between Xander and Giles. "Look," she offered. "I'm sure that if you stopped by her house, Ms. Calendar would be sick in bed."

"Yeah, why don't you stop by?" Xander asked, aiming a ball of paper at Cordelia's head. "See how. . . fatally ill she is."

"Say, Cordy," he added sweetly, "How're you feeling? You aren't coming down with Nintendoitis, are ya?"

"Grow _up_," Cordelia instructed, giving him a glare of deepest loathing.

"Aw, but what fun is that?" Xander asked before promptly hurling the ball of paper at her.

"Xander Harris, I am going to _kill_ you!" proclaimed Cordelia, standing up and slamming the book she'd been rifling through.

"Bring it on!" Xander shot back, rising from his chair. "This library ain't big enough for the both of us!"

"Does this seem eerily like an old Western movie to anyone else?" Buffy wanted to know.

"I wouldn't be surprised if a tumbleweed rolled by any minute now," Willow replied.

Giles, meanwhile, was rather lost in thought. Jenny hadn't lied to him; of course she hadn't. But at the same time . . .

No. It wasn't as though he suspected her of being untruthful. After all, what motives would she have to do such a thing in the first place?

He would just . . . stop by her house. To see how she was feeling. Maybe he would bring her some flowers, or soup, or something of the like. Just to show that he had been thinking of her.

. . . But not in a suspicious she's-wronged-me-and-now-must-pay sense, in manner of Othello.

Of course not.

It just--

"Don't throw my books!" Giles barked, snapped out of his reverie as one of the heavier volumes went flying toward Xander, who ducked a split-second too late. Intense pain was apparent in his features for a moment before he collapsed onto the floor.

"Oh, God!" Cordelia cried at once, rushing toward him. "Xander!"

"My _book_," Giles mumbled, following Buffy and Willow as they too made their way hurriedly toward Xander. Bending down and scooping up the book, Giles inspected it thoroughly - there didn't seem to be any damage done.

Cordelia had sunk down onto the ground next to Xander and was now cradling his head in her lap. Willow and Buffy were watching, rather bemused, and Giles couldn't blame them. This was hardly an ordinary occurrence.

"Oh, God, Xander, I'm so sorry," Cordelia said, looking truly distressed.

"Cordelia," Xander replied, rather bleary-eyed as he looked up at her, "You're really beautiful."

A moment of silence hung in the air in which the innocent bystanders all exchanged utterly bewildered glances.

And then, at the same time-

"But if you even _think_ about suing, I'll see to it that your ass is thoroughly kicked."

"But I hate you more than anything."

Buffy and Willow laughed, Cordelia promptly pushed Xander from her lap, and Giles realized that he really didn't care to stay here much longer.

"I'm going to go visit Jenny," he announced, retrieving his briefcase and jacket from his office.

"See you, Giles," Buffy said.

"I'm sure she's fine," Willow threw in, then cringed. "I mean . . . in a sick way."

"Yes, yes, right," Giles said distractedly.

"Have fun, Giles," Xander said, rubbing his head. "And remember to duck if the wench throws a book at you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

*

If she hadn't known better, Jenny was beginning to literally take her mother's statement that one's monthly cycle was, in fact, a curse. Which begged the question—what had she done, exactly, to merit this kind of pain? 

Furthermore, what did a measly little soul have on eternal torture? 

She was also really desperate for a hot water bottle right now. And maybe some comfort. . . or a means of suicide.

Oh, wonderful. Now she was hallucinating a pounding noise.

"Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop," she muttered to herself, clutching a pillow to her head.

Oh. Realization dawned.

That wasn't a hallucination.

Someone was knocking.

At her door, no less.

Ah. That would explain a pounding noise

"Coming!" she called out wearily, staggering to the door. If there was a salesman there, he was going to die a very painful death. 

Involving internal bleeding.

Or maybe being stabbed with, say, a dozen knives while being afflicted with a migraine.

Yeah, that would about do it.

"Er, Jenny?" She stopped dead in her tracks as she heard the voice on the other side of the door. Rupert. Shit. 

"Wu—" Oh, screw it, she reflected sourly. She threw the door open. The jig was up. Rupert had called her bluff.

She remembered belatedly that she had neither brushed her teeth nor combed her hair this morning. "Um, hello."

The rather anxious expression on his face seemed to give way to pure relief. "You're sick."

"Yeah," she agreed. Really, it was one thing to tell the truth if he suspected she was lying, but quite another if he was willing to go along with it.

. . . Right.

"I, ah, brought you some flowers," he said, handing her a rather sloppy bouquet of . . . dandelions.

"The flower shop is closed today," he explained. "I know that . . . well, weeds are hardly suitable, but--"

"You picked dandelions for me?" she asked, and couldn't fight back the rather goofy grin that was making its way onto her face. 

"More or less, yes," he said with a sheepish sort of shrug. "I know you would have preferred roses or--"

"Nah," she said, still beaming. "I love the dandelions, Rupert. They're perfect."

He smiled almost shyly back at her, and they had been standing in her doorway staring at each other for about twenty seconds before she realized that it would most likely be wise to invite him in.

What was it about this man that affected her so much? Now she was even forgetting about common courtesy. (Not that she was exceptionally skilled in that area to begin with.)

"Come on in," she said, stepping aside and allowing him to enter.

"Thank you." He shut the door behind him and they stood in silence for a moment. Actually, she didn't really mind silences with him. They were kind of nice and . . . God help her, they almost gave her warm and fuzzy feelings inside. Which were doubtlessly preferable to the excruciating pain she'd been going through all day.

"Rupert?" she asked lazily.

"Oh," he said, and blinked a few times. "Yes?"

"We live in California," she informed him.

"I know."

"And . . . the weather's always relatively warm."

"Yes," Rupert agreed, apparently bewildered as to what she could be getting at.

"Then why are you wearing a scarf?" she asked, reaching over and fingering the garment.

"Oh," he said, and laughed a little as he looked down at her hand. "Habit, I suppose."

"Habit," Jenny repeated, settling back on the couch and patting the cushion besides her. Rupert looked slightly disappointed at the loss of her hand. "Well, that's one way to put it." 

"I. . . suppose," he said doubtfully, sitting carefully beside her. Jenny immediately curled up next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. Rupert was nowhere near successful in hiding that silly grin as he stroked her hair idly. "You do sound a little better," he said, his voice doing funny things to her stomach. "I do hope that that sign is accompanied by an improvement in health?"

"A bit," Jenny said with a faint sigh as Rupert shifted his arm slightly. "Be better tomorrow for certain, I'd think." 

"Wonderful," he said, sounding rather more delighted than he had all day. "Incidentally, are you certain Nintendoitis is the correct name for your illness?"

Jenny froze. "Uh. . . " she said, racking her brain for an easy way out of this. "I guess I could have it wrong."

"Or perhaps it could be the colloquial name for the disease?" Rupert suggested, his hand now rubbing softly against her lower arm. 

"Yeah. . ." Jenny mumbled, burying her face in his shoulder. "Yeah, what you said." 

Mmm. This was nice. She wouldn't mind staying like this for a few hours . . . or days . . . or forever. If someone had told her the year before that she would in time consider cuddling with Rupert Giles to be utterly blissful, she would've questioned their sanity. It was definitely funny, how these things worked out. She'd gone from mentally referring to him as 'Snobby' and wanting to throw things at him to grinning stupidly when he was around and daydreaming about him in manner of some lovestruck schoolgirl, all throughout the course of six months or so.

Love definitely worked in mysterious ways.

. . . Whoa.

Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa.

_Love?_

Jenny blinked.

And then blinked again, just for variety. 

_Love?_

"Jenny, are you quite all right?" Rupert sounded worried again. "Shall I fix you a cup of tea?" 

"That'd be nice, thanks," Jenny said automatically, forgetting that a) she didn't drink tea, b) Rupert's idea of tea was only slightly less potent than paint stripper, and c) . . . she was going mad. Absolutely nuts. 

_Love?_

"Sugar?"

"In the cabinet." 

She was in love. She was in love with a librarian. Who not only spent half his nights trained a teenage vampire slayer, but also wouldn't know a wireless connection if it bit him on the end of his adorable British nose. 

. . . well. 

This was interesting. 

"Milk?" 

"Fridge."

"No, would you like some?" Rupert paused in the middle of the kitchen, his brow furrowed as he lifted her battered old teapot high into the air. She looked over at his tweed jacket and at the wire-rimmed glasses he wore. A wide smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. Goddess, she'd gone mad. 

But she'd be sure to enjoy insanity. 

"Sure," she said softly. "I'll happily take it." 

He smiled at her, his expression a mix of affection and nervousness. "Good."

So. She was in love with him.

Love. That was pretty big. (But at least she'd finally stopped attaching incredulous question marks to the end of the word.)

What would come next? There were, of course, the obvious things: more dating, and morning visits to the library before her classes started (a kiss or two would probably be snuck in here), and sex (God, was she blushing? It felt like she was blushing, which was completely ridiculous. She wasn't sixteen anymore. Men weren't supposed to make her blush.), but would things go even beyond that?

She entertained visions of engagement rings and wedding dresses and honeymoons in Paris for a moment before she realized that maybe she was getting ahead of herself.

You know, just a little bit.

"I . . . I'm glad that you're recovering," Rupert said, retrieving two coffee mugs from the cupboard before freezing, looking rather abashed. "I'm terribly sorry - I shouldn't be just going through your kitchen--"

"It's okay, Rupert," she cut in, and discovered that she was now even starting to smile at him without realizing it. "Make yourself at home."

"Erm . . . all right." He absently removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish his glasses.

He was so cute when he did that.

Of course, he was pretty much darling all the time.

And--

_Focus, Jenny,_ she instructed herself.

"So, uh, how was your day?" she asked, propping her legs up on the coffee table. Calm down, she ordered herself. So you're in love. In love with a wonderful, bumbling, British, snobby. . . calm _down_, self. "Any world-threatening doom?" 

"No, I'm afraid not," Rupert said with a small smile as he carried over two cups of tea to her. "Unless you count a small domestic squabble between Xander and Cordelia that threatened Shakespeare's comedies." The smile turned into a frown. "A rather valuable copy, too."

"Ah," Jenny said lightly, sipping at her tea-- more to give her something else to focus on besides Rupert's mouth-- and wishing that she wasn't still plagued with aches that would put any arthritis sufferer to shame. 

Rupert, in one of those sweetly-hesitant-yet-calmly-chivalrous gestures that she suspected came with the whole British scholar thing, draped his scarf around her neck. "Y-y-you looked cold," he stammered in response to her questioning glance. 

"Yeah, I was," Jenny said, reaching out and touching the scarf. "Thanks. . . " she added, brushing Rupert's fingers accidentally-on-purpose (make some attempt at playing hard to get, anyway, if she was going to be madly in love with the guy) as she handed him a teaspoon.

"M . . . my pleasure," he said awkwardly. They sunk into another one of those warm-and-fuzzy silences, staring rather fondly at each other. Jenny was far from oblivious to the fact that it was definitely an adequate moment for a kiss, and judging by the rather flustered expression on Rupert's face, he wasn't completely clueless either.

. . . Just far too quintessentially-proper-British-guy to do anything about it.

"Rupert," Jenny said, and couldn't fight back a rather devious smile, "I think you're supposed to kiss me about now."

There was something so addicting about making him squirm.

"Oh . . . oh," he stuttered, looking a bit taken aback. "Yes, well . . . ah, I . . . I don't want - no! It's not that I don't _want_ to . . . well, you see, it's just - you're ill and I would hardly want to . . . to take advantage of--"

"Shut up, England," she ordered, grinning.

"All right," he acquiesced quickly.

She laughed a little, then fixed her fingers lightly on his shirt collar and pulled him toward her.

Their lips only brushed against each other's at first, and Jenny closed her eyes as Rupert's mouth moved softly against hers. She could sense him wanting to pull away, but instead she captured his mouth and cupped her hand against his cheek. He hadn't shaved today, surprisingly enough. Worried about her? 

Kissing him was like. . . Jenny could never have explained it. It was something Rupert could probably do better, what with his considerable experience with Shakespearean sonnets. It was everything like tiny beads on a chain and gold clouds at sunset. His mouth tasted faintly of the tea, and she could smell his cologne as tried to remember to breathe. It was everything she didn't understand and that was why she loved it. 

She'd always been skeptical about romance - she was big on skepticism - but with every moment she spent with him, she grew less _'love? yeah, right'_ and more _'wherefore art thou Romeo?'_.

And the scary thing was, she didn't mind it.

She had even accepted that she loved the guy, which was definitely a first for her.

Yeah, this was definitely the life, she reflected as he placed his hands rather tentatively around her waist. Who could ask for anything more?

_Riiiiiiiing!_

Like the phone ringing. She hadn't asked for that.

She mentally cursed the confounded machine (great, now she was starting to think like Rupert) and, after shooting a quick glare at it, defiantly pressed her mouth against his again.

_Riiiiiiiing!_

He pulled away from her. "Perhaps you should--"

"Ignore it," she instructed, kissing his cheek quickly before returning to the lips. (She really liked the lips.)

"Mmkay," he agreed easily and ran his fingers through her hair.

_Riiiiiiiing!_

"Oh, for God's sake," she muttered, reluctantly removing her arms from around his neck. He was smiling rather dazedly at her.

Damn, he was wonderful--

Whoops. Kissing again. Oh well. Whoever it was could call back. After all, she was currently busy with something much more important--

_Riiiiiiiing!_

"Telephone," he mumbled.

"Right," she agreed, rising from his lap and making her way toward the telephone. (Damned thing.) She picked it up and uttered a rather annoyed 'hello?'

"I _swear_, it totally wasn't my fault," the unmistakable voice of Cordelia Chase proclaimed at once.

"Yeah, right!" Xander was perfectly audible in the background. "That was entirely your wicked doing! Which isn't surprising."

"Cordelia, what's going on?" Jenny asked testily. "Is everything okay?"

She glanced at Giles, whose expression had immediately turned alert.

__

And he's back into Watcher mode.

"Well," Cordelia said delicately, "Giles might be . . . a little pissed."

"Cordelia," Jenny said warningly.

"Oneofthebookshelvesgotknockedover," Cordelia said quickly.

"What?!" Jenny asked, aghast.

Uh-oh. Rupert was going to freak.

"Have I mentioned that this is _so_ not my fault?"

"What's going on?" Rupert demanded, coming over beside her.

Jenny handed him the phone silently. There was a moment of tense silence, before--

"You _what_?!"

He had gone eerily pale.

This couldn't be good. Cordelia and Xander were pretty much doomed. Sure, Rupert wasn't the most violent guy in the world, but the library was not to be messed with. He'd made that perfectly clear on more than one occasion.

. . . And how the hell had they managed to knock over a bookshelf?

__

Never underestimate the extreme enmity between Cordelia Chase and Xander Harris, I guess.

"Oh, dear God," Rupert was mumbling, still clutching the phone as he sunk rather weakly down into a chair. Jenny quickly made her way over to him and began to massage his shoulders, but it was apparently to no avail. The poor man was distraught.

"Rupert, calm down," she instructed soothingly.

"Were any of the books damaged? What shelf was it?" Rupert was asking anxiously. "No-- no, Xander, don't look at the books, look at the plaque on the side-- oh, for God's sake, put Willow on the line--" He threw his hand up onto his forehead. "At least _she_ understands the Dewey Decimal System," he said sotto voice to Jenny, who was now leaning forward with mingled amusement and alarm. 

"Rare talent these days," Jenny said innocently. "The Dewey Decimal System. . ."

"Indeed," Rupert said, clearly missing the sarcasm in her voice. "Unbelievable, really. Ah. Yes. Willow. Tell me, exactly what shelf was knocked over-- oh. Well." He took a deep breath. "I suppose it could have been in a worse location." 

He was exhibiting signs of relief. That had to be a good thing.

"Yes, I'll be right there," he continued. "Jenny's quite all right . . . yes, fortunate indeed . . . All right, if he insists." He covered the mouth of the phone for a moment to inform her, "I'm sorry, I'll be off in just a minute - Xander has something to tell me."

"Which will no doubt be profound beyond belief," she replied, smirking.

"Naturally," Rupert deadpanned, then returned to the telephone conversation. "Yes, Xander? . . . I don't see why I should . . . Fine, if you're going to be so insistent about it, I'll ask her . . ." He was silent for a moment, and looked rather flustered. "We were just . . . ah . . . talking."

Talking. Right.

With a rather wicked smile, she took the phone from Rupert's hand. "Xander?"

"Hey, Ms. C. What's up?"

"I'm just going to have to cut this call short," she replied, very innocently. "Rupert and I were in the middle of a very . . . exhilarating conversation that we'd like to resume as soon as possible."

A rather choked nose that somewhat resembled the lovechild of a laugh and a moan of horror served as Xander's response.

"See you tomorrow," she sang out before hanging up the phone.

Rupert was staring at her in something that very much resembled astonishment.

"D . . . do you know what it just sounded like you were implying?" he asked weakly.

"Of course," she responded sweetly.

"You may find this surprising, but I don't generally . . . share those things with Xander."

She couldn't help laughing a little as she leaned down and draped an arm over his shoulders. "Hey. The kid took part in knocking over your bookshelf. I was just trying to avenge the act of evil."

"How . . . very valiant of you," he responded, unable to resist a small smile.

"Well," Jenny said, grinning back, "Anything for the man who brings me dandelions."

"Mm," he replied noncommittally. 

"Oh, come on, Rupert, lighten up," she said, leaning forward and discovering, much to her surprise, that all the excruciating pain of earlier had disappeared. She brushed her lips near the top of his ear and heard, much to her satisfaction, a slight gasp from Rupert. "You know how much we like to. . . talk." 

"Indeed?" Rupert asked-- a question that would have been a lot more convincing had he not been holding Jenny's fingers in his hand and looking at them with something akin to wonder. She managed not to go weak at the knees.

Barely. 

She recalled enough fine muscle control to nod. Yes. Nodding signified yes. That was good.

"Well. . ." Giles said thoughtfully, turning her hand over to look at the fine lines etched across her palm. "I did read this nicely written article in the Book Review the other day--"

"Actually," Jenny cut in, making her way around the chair and sinking down onto his lap. He fell silent at once, watching her as though positively entranced.

Slinging her arms over his shoulders, she continued lightly, "Somehow I don't think we're going to do much talking after all."

Judging by the way he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers (quite intensely, considering his proper English gentleman demeanor - but she wasn't complaining), Jenny concluded that he didn't particularly seem to mind that prospect.

He pulled away from her suddenly.

"What's wrong?" she asked, a bit alarmed.

"Xander wanted me to ask you," he said, "About the . . . Nintendoitis. He's under the impression that it doesn't exist."

"It . . . doesn't, exactly," she admitted, rather chagrined.

"Really?" he asked, surprised. "Then what's wrong?"

She stared at him for a moment before concluding that the poor guy probably really didn't want to know.

"Just kiss me, Snobby."

"Well," Rupert said, the perfect picture of thoughtfulness, "If you insist."

Which she did, of course.

After all, she was hardly one to object to such an invitation.

__

The End!


End file.
